


to injure they befriended

by wraysford



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 08:28:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/976634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wraysford/pseuds/wraysford
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So if Fernando knows, deep down but not deep enough, that they’re right to have been penalised, that Mark knows they’re both guilty too, that this is about so much more than just one stupid grid penalty, he’s not going to do anything. Mark <em>needs</em> this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to injure they befriended

**Author's Note:**

> Dashed off for this prompt on [motorskink](http://motorskink.livejournal.com/3479.html?thread=1281431#t1281431) after the 2013 Singapore GP, where a water leakage meant Mark had to pull his car over and Fernando stopped to pick him up.

Fernando pulls over because Mark’s there, suddenly, and he doesn’t even think about it, just instinctively brakes. Mark’s running for him, and he lets the car roll to a stop. The logical part of his mind ought to tell him to pull to the side, let Lewis and Nico and whoever else past, but the logical part has never worked that well when it comes to Mark.

Mark pats the top of his helmet when he climbs on, and Fernando shouldn’t feel prouder of that than of his P2.

 

They’re both called separately to the stewards. Fernando goes first, straight from the press conference, and Mark hears about his reprimand through word-of-mouth before he even goes in himself.

They replay him the accident and talk in even, serious tones and come up with some bullshit that means he’s got a ten place grid penalty for Korea. Mark makes a derisive noise and looks away when they announce their verdict, folds his arms across his chest, and he can feel Christian’s cold gaze boring into his back. Christian accepts it graciously, apologises for the incident.

Bullshit.

Fernando’s waiting for him afterwards. He’s changed out of his race gear into jeans, a plain t-shirt, sneakers, and he looks so _small_ , hunched in on himself in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs they keep outside the stewards’ office. His phone is in his hand but he’s not using it, just tapping a finger against the screen impatiently.

He looks up when the door clicks shut and then stands up. “Mark –” he starts, shoving his hands into his pockets, but then he sees Mark’s stony expression and falters. “I’m sorry,” he says, instead, and it’s directed at both of them, Christian and Mark.

“Not your fault,” Christian tells him, stiffly. He looks pissed. He _is_ pissed, and Mark suspects it’s at him rather than the stewards or Fernando, but if he’s honest he really doesn’t give a shit right now.

“It’s no one’s fucking fault,” Mark says. “It’s over.”

“You ran in front of the Mercedes, Mark,” Christian says, evenly. “I don’t like the fact that the highest my number two driver can start is eleventh, either.”

Fernando looks uncomfortable, looking down at the floor. He only lifts his gaze when Mark reaches out to curl a hand around his forearm. “We’re going,” he says, words firm, eyes fixed on Christian. His grip on Fernando’s arm is tight enough to be painful. “I’ll see you next week, Christian.”

 

They don’t talk the entire way to the hotel. Fernando drives them both in his SUV, which is at least subtler than the Ferrari, because the Singapore streets are still swarming with fans. The traffic’s bad but the hotel isn’t too far.

Fernando puts a hand on Mark’s knee when they stop at a red light. He squeezes it lightly, and Mark swallows hard, looks away and out of the window into the night.

 

Mark’s room is a floor up from Fernando’s. It’s maybe a few seconds extra in the lift and it doesn’t matter, that shouldn’t matter at all, but when you do what they do a few seconds extra can be the difference between winning and losing, between turning the corner and hitting the wall. A few seconds can be everything, and Fernando knows that just as well as Mark does.

He kisses Mark as soon as the door is shut behind them, leaning up on his tiptoes to press their mouths together softly.

And maybe this isn’t what Mark needs, maybe Fernando should sit him down and let him talk it out, maybe he should let Mark be alone while he gets this out of his system, but Mark’s old enough to know what he needs, and right now he’s kissing Fernando back desperately and Fernando – Fernando doesn’t feel like he can should anywhere else right now.

(And this, _this_ isn’t about him. This is about letting Mark take control of something.

So if Fernando knows, deep down but not deep enough, that they’re right to have been penalised, that Mark knows they’re both guilty too, that this is about so much more than just one stupid grid penalty, he’s not going to do anything. Mark _needs_ this.)

He lets Mark strip him out of his t-shirt and his jeans, his underwear, toes off his own sneakers. He doesn’t protest when Mark presses him down into the bed, one strong hand on each of his hips, hard enough to bruise. He spreads his legs and wraps his arms tightly around Mark’s neck when Mark pushes into him, the stretch dangerously close to painful but just on the right side of so, so fucking good. He doesn’t quiet his moans as Mark fucks him, face pressed into Fernando’s neck, mouth open against his throat.

Mark breath hitches as he comes and he groans low in his throat, and Fernando holds him tighter, because he doesn’t feel like he can let Mark go.

 

Afterwards Mark sits on the edge of the bed, leans his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands. He’s slumped over, done, defeated, and it takes all of Fernando’s self-control not to just go over to him and curl up in his lap like he used to back when they were younger, back when Mark saying _teammate_ meant David and Fernando was still in white and orange and blue. He wants to tell Mark it’ll all be okay, that he’s here, but next year Fernando won’t be there anymore.

So he just allows himself one tentative touch against Mark’s spine, just fingertips that fall away quickly.

“Mark,” says Fernando, softly. “Mark.”

Mark turns his head so that he can look back. Fernando’s lying on his stomach, the sheets rucked up around his waist and his head half turned into the pillow. He smiles gently at Mark, tracing the line of his spine again.

“Is only one race,” he says, and Mark huffs out a short, sharp laugh, lifting his head so that his hands drag down his jaw and over his neck. “Mark.”

“I _know_ ,” says Mark, and it’s the first time he’s spoken in hours. The first time he’s spoken since he told Christian goodbye, the first thing he’s directly addressed to Fernando all day, and he sounds – not upset, not resigned, somewhere inbetween. “I know you think it’s just this race, Fernando. But it’s – it’s every race. I have to sit there and watch him win every weekend when my car doesn’t even fucking work properly, and the few times I want Christian to take my side...” He trails off, shaking his head. “It’s bullshit. It’s all bullshit.”

His hands have balled into fists now, the line of his back rigid, and Fernando knows how much it must be paining him to admit all this. He knows Mark probably thinks himself childish, how jealous he is of Seb, and Fernando wants to tell him that he’s _allowed_ to be jealous. It’s the whole spirit of the sport: trying to be faster than the guy in front of you, painstakingly making up fractions of a second by taking a little extra risk around that corner, cutting the kerb a little more on another. It’s what they thrive on.

It’s just unfortunate that the guy in front of Mark is always Seb.

Fernando sits up, pulling the sheets with him and wrapping them around his waist. He moves closer to Mark, shuffling until he can sit next to him. Mark is still staring straight ahead, but he leans into Fernando, his back half against Fernando’s chest.

They sit like that for a few minutes, maybe longer, before Mark speaks.

“Next year,” he says, and the words are heavy, rough. “Next year, Fernando, you’re going to beat him. I don’t care what it takes –”

“Mark –” Fernando starts, because he’s been told _whatever it takes_ in Singapore before and agreeing had ended with Nelson’s car in the wall and guilt as he stepped onto the top step of the podium.

But Mark’s turning to him and his eyes are wild, and Fernando can’t look away from them, that hard gaze, the anger and the hurt there. “Promise me, Fernando,” he’s saying. “Promise me you’ll do whatever it takes to beat him.”

And Fernando shouldn’t.

He should tell Mark _no_ , watch his face fall, let him push Fernando away and dress carelessly, stalk out of the room. He shouldn’t make a promise like that, one he knows he can’t keep.

But he’s already losing Mark one way next season, and he can’t lose this too.

“Promise,” he whispers, and desperately tries to ignore the wrench of guilt in his stomach as Mark smiles and kisses him.


End file.
